Now this horse, who was called _Old Ironsides_, was as famous for his kicking habits as Cæsar was for his sheep-killing. He seemed to take up kicking as a sort of amusement, to while away his leisure hours. It was a wonder that Mr. Marble kept him; for he had kicked the old chaise to pieces several times; and as to his stable, he made nothing of kicking off all the boards within reach of his heels, every few nights, just for the fun of the thing, and to show what mighty deeds he could do with his heels.
It is no more than an act of simple justice to Old Ironsides, however, to say, that he was as gentle as a lamb to the children of his master. They could do any thing with him. Often, when he was standing at the door, or in his stable, they would go close to him, and pat him on his neck, and play with him, as if he were one of their own number; and the old fellow would take all their fun good-humoredly. Among all his sins in the kicking line--and he had a great many, first and last, to answer for--he never kicked either of the children. They all loved him, in fact; and many is the dainty morsel he received from their hands.
Well, to go on with the story of Mike's piece of mischief. The dog, as he had expected, trotted along after the pieces of meat, and commenced eating, without any suspicions of harm, right under the _battery_ of the old horse. There he remained for some moments, as Mike says, taking as much comfort eating his dinner, as if he were dining on one of his father's sheep.
[Illustration: OLD IRONSIDES AND THE CHILDREN.]
Old Ironsides took no notice of the dog. Indeed, he rather appeared half asleep. He often shut his eyes, by the way, as he was standing at a post, and dosed, and nodded, much after the fashion of some men, when they set out to listen to a sermon on Sunday. All the time, however, Mike had a crotchet in his head.
"Halloo, old fellow!" he shouted, "what are you about there?"
In an instant Old Ironsides was wide awake, and, seeing at a glance what was going on behind, he pricked up his ears, uttered one brief snort, and away went his heels like lightning. Poor Cæsar! When he touched this planet again--for Old Ironsides had sent him up towards the moon, much farther than I should want to go, in that style--he was a lost dog. Old Ironsides, who proved to be as great a hero, in his way, as Cæsar was, had killed him. The great enemy of sheepdom had ceased to breathe.